


i'll make my way to you

by Teroe



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, I hope I caught all those mistakes, Kinda, be careful tho if that's not your thing, minor depictions of violence?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-12 18:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19234354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teroe/pseuds/Teroe
Summary: love tends to find its way home, or at least that’s what clarke has learned over the years.





	i'll make my way to you

**Author's Note:**

> sorry ive been MIA. here's a little random something that will hopefully make up for it. (This was originally intended to be for clexa week but that didn't happen. posted in the dead of night bc like idk)

 

The first arrow lodges itself deep and Clarke watches it happen. It sinks into Lexa’s left shoulder with enough impact to unsettle the stance of her feet. Lodges just under the strap that keeps her guard in place, through the layers of clothes and buckles and the only sign of pain is the grimace that creases Lexa’s brow.

Clarke feels like it hits her instead.

“Lex--” and it's a breath, incomplete as a body crashes into her side amidst the chaos and sends her sprawling. She catches herself, barely. Half over her knees and her hair in her face, hands scraped raw by the dirt and rocks. It takes her a second to find Lexa again among the growing smoke and the sounds that rise until it's nothing but a low buzz in her ears.

The second arrow finds Lexa’s hip, followed by another in quick succession just below her ribs, and makes itself at home, but Lexa gives it as much thought as the first. Merely a wrinkle of her nose as she bares her teeth, switches her grip, and bashes an incoming enemy with the pommel of her sword.

He crumples to the ground, clutching his face. Another charges, roaring, only there’s a sudden and swift change in direction, the downward slash of her sword. The body follows with a thud and a plume of dust.

What happens next is slow, the catch of eyes as Lexa turns and Clarke knows Lexa’s looking for her. Maybe it’s the look in her eyes, urgent and open, before falling to the arrow lodged in her hip. Her sword drops, half embedded in the dirt before the weight of the hilt causes it to topple, the now empty hand gently gripping the shaft as if to pull it out--

“Lexa!”

Green eyes finally settle and for a moment things quiet. The cries and shouts grow soft, this far off white noise that fills her ears like cotton, but Clarke sees it; the softness with which Lexa’s lips form her name. She’s seen it more times than she can count.

The first step Lexa takes towards her wavers. A tenuous balance that in the end doesn’t hold and Clarke finally finds the wherewithal to move the moment Lexa sinks to a knee, heavy. Clarke scrambles upwards, using her hands, dirt wedging under her nails. Her eyes sting from the dirt and smoke, but the tears don’t come until she’s close.

Clarke grabs whatever she can. The strap across Lexa’s chest, the lapel of her jacket, and the weight drags her down, but she manages to lessen the impact, tugging Lexa into her to dampen the force. Lexa’s breath comes in long, drawn inhales, her skin blotched and sweaty, blood coating the hair near her temple. Clarke’s stomach twists and she pushes the clumped strands from Lexa’s face.

“You don’t--” Clarke starts, clenching her teeth, fingers trembling. Lexa’s eyes are listless but they focus on her. Or try to. “You don’t get to do this, Lexa, you don’t--”

An explosion sounds and Clarke ducks, hunching over Lexa’s body as bits of rubble fling past and she doesn’t waste time. When things settle, Clarke hooks her arms underneath Lexa’s and drags. Clarke curses at the weight, all the extra bulk Lexa wears, and she fumbles with the pauldron until it unhitches and falls away.

The next twenty or so feet towards relative safety are long, and she all but collapses, scrambling to drag Lexa behind the makeshift cover of some dilapidated market stall and out of the way. The arrows stick out, buried deep into the outer jacket and the shirt underneath, and Clarke places her palm flat over Lexa’s chest and holds it there.

They don’t stop shaking.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, attempting to clear her throat of the dirt and smoke.

“Shut up,” Clarke growls, but it's weak, half buried by the panic that claims her throat.

She’s been trained for this, been prepared for this, and yet out here nothing really matters. Far off shouts echo off the crumbled buildings, structures tumbling under the pressure of a deteriorating infrastructure, and her mind is dragged ten different ways at once. But she hears it.

Her hand immediately reaches for the knife tucked in her boot, slipping it free with surprising ease, and whirls. She sees red, wrath curling like a fire in the pit of her gut, and she wants to see blood in exchange for what Lexa has lost.

But at the last moment she stops, her mother’s dirt smeared face visible just a few feet away, worried and afraid. Abby pulls her hands back, palms out in evident surrender, and Clarke’s resolve crumbles in an instant.

The knife drops, sinks somewhere in the dirt.

“ _Mom_ \--” Clarke chokes out, and the tears come unbidden, nose suddenly running, and she turns back to Lexa, pulling her up more securely into her lap. “Mom... please.”

Abby moves closer. “Clarke--”

“You have to--”

“Clarke.”

Her hands hurt and her eyes sting, throat dry from the dirt, and all she can smell is the ash and smoke of Polis burning, but in the following seconds, Clarke breathes.

 

* * *

 

Everything goes back to normal faster than Clarke thinks should be possible. Like a wound, she’s grown accustomed to the scab. The slow heal and the itch that makes the aftermath far worse than it is. But that time is essential and its absence Clarke feels somewhere in the pit of her gut. It doesn’t feel right, this peace, and it’s like she’s left waiting for the dam to break, for the other shoe to fall, because what’s life without a little bit more misery.

But it doesn’t. Life goes on as it is wont to do. People get back up, dust themselves off and move on, and to be honest it kind of makes her want to scream. Just a little bit. At the very least maybe just at Lexa, who sits reclined on her throne as if a mere twenty hours ago she wasn’t riddled with arrows on her mother’s medical table.

There’s this permanent grimace to her face hidden behind a carefully composed and yet subtle scowl. A pinch to her brows Clarke would find utterly endearing had it not been for the circumstances in which it arrived. Gone is the heavy leather, the buckles and straps. The pauldron and sash are left draped over the back of the throne. All Lexa wears is this thin slip of a white shirt, long sleeves and loose neckline, and fitted riding trousers and boots. Bandages, dirty and starting to seep red, stand out under the sheerness of her clothes.

Lexa doesn’t see it as a weakness. The bruises and the still healing wounds are a testament to her victory, but if it were up to Clarke, Lexa would still be in bed, healing as she should.

“You’re glaring,” Lexa states, and it’s so out of the blue it momentarily draws Clarke from her temporary glowering. The room has cleared, but it won’t last long. Lexa shifts on her throne, propping her elbow along the bone of the armrest, hand lax.

Clarke snorts. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Clarke rolls her eyes.

“I’m fine, Clarke.”

“You’re not,” Clarke replies, avoiding eye contact, and she knows how childish that must seem.

Clarke hears a sigh followed by a soft grunt of pain as Lexa stands from her throne and then closes the distance. Lexa steps into her space, close, and Clarke inhales.

“Go see to the seconds, Clarke,” Lexa says, fingers gentle as she brushes the hair from Clarke’s face and Clarke lets the breath escape from her lungs.

“You’re trying to get rid of me.”

Lexa’s lips quirk, this small little curl, and it takes everything Clarke has not to kiss it. Not here and certainly not now. “Am I?”

“I swear to god, Lexa, if you don’t treat this properly--”

“I will.”

Clarke clicks her mouth shut, jaw clenched, and for a second she catches the exhaustion as it finds its way into the line of Lexa’s neck, her posture breaking. The shirt slips low with the motion, exposing the bandages wrapped around her shoulder and the swath of bruised skin near her neck and it’s hard not to stare. Clarke doesn’t think before angling her head upward, brushing the tip of her nose against Lexa’s, her hands finding the slope of Lexa’s waist.

Lexa’s lips part subtly, but she doesn’t move. Her breathing steadies, and Clarke’s hands splay over the soft fabric and the flair of Lexa’s ribs. Her thumb counts them one by one--to make sure of the things she isn’t.

The door creaks and Clarke pulls back, her hand lingering until the last possible moment when the guardsman appears just beyond the threshold. Lexa straightens.

“Heda,” he starts, folding into a bow. “The southern delegation is ready for you.”

“Send them in,” Lexa says, face suddenly impassive, and with resolute tap of his spear against the stone floor, the guardsman exits.

There’s a moment of silence, and a hand finds the small of Clarke’s back, nudges her towards the doors.

“I will find you.” Lexa words come out soft, a whisper as the noise beyond the door grows by the second, and Clarke trusts the sincerity in them. She nods in reluctant understanding, watching as Lexa gives a subtle inclination of her head before pulling away completely, retracing her steps back to her throne.

The southern leaders file in, and among them Clarke slips quietly out into the hall.

 

* * *

 

“We’ve been through this, honey, she’ll be fine,” Abby says, sterilizing and inspecting the medical equipment before filing them away into their proper compartments. “So long as she doesn’t aggravate her wounds and keeps them clean, she’ll be back in shape before you know it.” Abby casts her a glance. “Might as well make the most of the time while you have it.”

Clarke’s cheeks heat at the vague and yet blatant accusation and she swivels on the stool, peering out past the open curtain to glimpse the main area of the medical pavilion. Chaos, however controlled, is a certain kind of frenzy as healers rush to and fro between patients, all with a varying array of injuries. With the worse already gone, however, all that remains are the cuts and scrapes and broken bones. All easily fixable.

“And how are you? Really?”

Clarke starts, turning back to find her mother watching knowingly. Abby drags a towel over her hands, maneuvering around the exam table and resting against it. Clarke doesn’t know how to answer. She lifts her hands from her lap, studies the slight tremor through them, and it's not nearly as bad as it has been but at this point it never goes away.

She shrugs, clenching her hands into fists.

Abby smiles sympathetically, putting aside the towel. She makes her way carefully over, crouching in front of Clarke, a calm and gentle hand on her knee. “It’s a lot. Isn’t it?”

Clarke doesn’t say anything, not trusting her voice, and it’s the thought that one time, when they need it most, whatever they have won’t be enough.

“That’s just how life is down here, Clarke. It’s hard, it’s...dangerous. But we survive,” Abby says, and Clarke bites back a scoff. As if she hadn’t been privy to the ground’s particular brand of cruelness the moment she landed.

“By now shouldn’t we have better?” Clarke whispers.

She remembers it. That unnerving coolness of autumn and the sudden onset of war, but also the warmth of Lexa’s lips and the safety and hope she found there. It seems so long ago and yet sometimes it feels like nothing has changed. Peace has never been so fragile.

“Oh, Clarke.”

Clarke shakes her head, willing away the sudden rush of helplessness that settles in her stomach.

“Honey, you’re doing such a good job,” Abby says, scooting closer, placing a comforting hand on Clarke’s knee. “But progress is, and will always be, slow.” She pauses, cracks a smile. ”Definitely slower than we would like.”

Abby waits, watching but silent, and then stands and meanders again, cleaning up the last of the materials left out over the table and the makeshift counters.

“Do you love her?”

The question startles her and Clarke’s head snaps up. Things take a while to focus, and it’s like every thought turns to sludge and stretches. She had always struggled with that word, ever since the beginning, and it never got any easier. “Mom--”

“I’ve seen the way she looks at you.” Abby trails off, lets the statement sink in. “The way you look at her.”

“It wasn’t...”

“And now it is?” Abby finishes tentatively.

Clarke gives another small shake of her head. “No, that’s not…”

Clarke stops. There never was a ‘wasn’t’. No pinpoint moment. Merely a realization after the fall of nia and the years that followed that even in spite of everything she had never stopped. Loving Lexa, that is. A part of her is glad, but the other, well, it understands life is precious and easy to take.

It’s not the right time. It may never be the right time.

“Do we deserve it?” Clarke forces the words out, purposefully vague and still afraid. She curls her fingers together until her knuckles go white from the strain and Clarke has to force herself to relax, watching the color rush back into her skin.

“Deserve what, honey?” Abby says, full of tender exasperation. “Love?”

Clarke hesitates--nods.

“Of course you do.”

 

* * *

 

The sun begins to set before Clarke manages to leave, but she can see the last bit of orange and red rays as they filter through the atrium. It's the first bits of quiet the medical pavilion has seen since before the attack and with it comes those first few deep breaths Clarke welcomes like a drug. She feels the air rest somewhere in the pit of lungs, a comfortable weight.

The heat stays, however, hung low over the earth and the dust that kicks up from the lack of rain. It doesn’t feel far off though. The humidity gathers in the crook of her elbow, the back of her neck, lies like a thin sheet over her skin. It’s easy to ignore.

A dull knock catches her attention and she glances back. She’s not all that surprised to find Lexa just by the entrance.

“I’m sorry.” Lexa stops, bumps her hand against her thigh in an uncharacteristic show of restlessness and Clarke turns away. “Have you eaten?”

“Have you?” Clarke shoots back, accusing, the last remnants of her anger. But it simmers, then cools, and Clarke peers back over her shoulder.

“Briefly,” Lexa says before falling quiet, holding her stare. She stands regal, proud even in her exhaustion, waiting patiently, and Clarke is defenseless against it. It’s the look of her, the entirety of her, and right now there’s nothing Clarke wants more than to test reality with her own two hands.

“Did you figure anything out?”

“Azgeda defectors,” Lexa says. “Allies of the old north following in Nia’s footsteps. They were apparently biding time over the last few years with a rebel group in the east.”

“How are you?”

Lexa blinks, and it’s like the words need time to sink in. “It’s nothing,” and she says it so surely that Clarke thinks Lexa truly believes it.

“Can I see?”

Lexa hesitates, but after a moment pulls herself from the threshold, pushing aside the bit of curtain. She positions herself in front of Clarke and Clarke reaches out without thinking, taking the hem of Lexa’s shirt. It’s a simple thing to remove it, a precursory tug and Lexa raises her arms. The garment slips off in one motion and all that’s left is strips of cloth and tan skin.

Clarke tests the tenderness, fingers careful along Lexa’s hip and the composite bandages plastered around her abdomen. There’s blood in splotches, dark and dried, but the worst is situated near her shoulder where the wound continues to weep. Continuous stress and movement is no doubt the cause and Clarke shoots a glare that goes unacknowledged.

Lexa’s skin is warm. It always has been and hopefully always will be.

“Sit please.”

Lexa does as she’s told. She takes a seat on one of the stools, the farthest one from the examination table, and Clarke sighs as she steals her mother’s chair, the one with the wheels, and rolls herself closer.

The cloth whispers as Clarke unwraps it, careful. That almost hush as the bandages slide against her fingers and then to the floor. Underneath the skin is red and angry, the stitches strained, and Clarke reaches for the closest bottle of antiseptic alcohol and a clean rag and gets to work.

“You’re an idiot, Lexa,” Clarke mutters, but there’s no reaction besides the stiffening of Lexa’s posture.

Despite her refusal for proper rest, Lexa is more than an adequate patient. She keeps her gaze forward and slightly to the right, over Clarke’s shoulder, and at a glance she looks bored. Disinterested. Clarke knows Lexa is no stranger to pain, but it’s the extent of her tolerance that always takes Clarke aback. Lexa feels. Perhaps more than most.

“What if I hadn’t seen you,” Clarke starts, and it feels like the tipping point. Her hand stills and Lexa turns to watch her and Clarke’s mind keeps going and doesn’t stop. “What if you had--”

“I will always find my way here,” Lexa says softly. “To you.”

Clarke swallows, her eyes watering. She drops her hand, curling inward until her head hits Lexa’s right shoulder, clenching the rag in her fist. Lexa smells like the earth and bits of sun, and Clarke tucks into the curve of her embrace.

 

* * *

 

The heat breaks sometime during the night. It starts with a drizzle against the doors to the balcony, but it’s not long before the droplets turn thick and heavy, pattering relentless against the glass. The room is dark and empty around her besides the few flickering candles placed on the side table near the couch. Thunder rumbles somewhere far off, a warning, and Clarke glances over at the shape of Lexa lain in bed.

Call it self inflicted punishment, maybe, or perhaps her lingering stubbornness, but she’s fooling no one. She pulls herself from the couch, putting aside her sketchbook and pencils, and snuffs the candles. The sounds are masked by the constant fall of rain and it makes sneaking easy as her feet carry her to bed.

The mattress dips as Clarke crawls over and Lexa stirs awake almost instantly, turning towards the disturbance. She stands out among the pale sheets twisted around her legs, all tan skin and dark hair.

“Go back to sleep,” Clarke shushes before Lexa has a chance to speak.

“It’s too late for that,” Lexa murmurs. She blinks a couple times and there’s that telltale sign of discomfort laced between her brows as she shifts, pushes herself up.

“And I’m already regretting it,” Clarke teases.

“Are you just coming to bed?”

“I had some things on my mind.”

“Do you want to--”

Clarke shakes her head. “No.”

The wind changes direction, followed by a low rumble of thunder, and then a gentle flicker of lightning. Lexa props herself against the headboard and once she’s comfortable, she reaches out for Clarke’s hand, coaxing it from the bedsheets and into her own. She tugs lightly, pulling Clarke atop her.

“Lexa,” Clarke chides but complies, and Lexa exhales a short chuckle.

“Clarke,” and it sounds like a sigh.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I will be fine,” Lexa says with this small self-assured smile, her hands on Clarke’s waist, fingers toying with the hemline of Clarke’s shirt. “And if I'm not, I'm sure you will tell me.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and sits back, straddling Lexa’s lap. Her hands seek out soft skin, the gentleness buried under years of war and she watches as Lexa relaxes under the touch.

“I love you,” Clarke says, whispered as if the walls have ears. She feels the declaration take root in the pit of her gut, and for a moment she feels sick. Scared at what it could mean in the long run with the odds stacked against them, but she watches Lexa’s eyes go wide, feels the grip on her waist tighten.

Lexa pushes herself up from her recline, and there’s a subtle wince Clarke catches, but she doesn’t say anything of it. Merely exhales at the contact of skin as Lexa presses her front flush against her, urgent. Lexa takes her lips in a kiss that, for a moment, leaves Clarke’s mind pleasantly blank and Clarke sinks into the safety she’s come to associate with warm skin and green eyes and wild hair.

“Say it again.” The edges of Lexa’s voice cracks, and Clarke’s throat tightens at the sound. “Please.”

“Lexa.”

“Please.”

"I love you."

Lexa tilts her head, stealing a kiss that lingers just long enough to be missed before pulling back and making quick work of the shirt hung loosely over Clarke’s frame. Clarke is the one to close the distance again.

“I love you,” Clarke murmurs against Lexa’s lips, falling easily back into the rhythm Lexa’s sets and this soft desperate whine escapes Lexa’s throat.

Her right arm wraps securely around Clarke’s waist while the other tosses aside the sheets still bunched around her legs. She flips them, presses Clarke back into the mattress, and Clarke revels in the solid weight above her, the lips that find her neck and the underside of her jaw.

It’s the soft whispered things between kisses that make Clarke’s skin prickle, unable to hear clearly because of the hushed and reverent tone in which Lexa speaks, muffled against her skin.

_I love you._

 

 

 


End file.
